


remember us (not as lost violent souls)

by ohfiitz



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst without plot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Lmao what is this, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, for Gabi, ish, somewhat dark Perthshire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfiitz/pseuds/ohfiitz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz and Simmons move into a secluded cottage in Perthshire, where they try to build a life, face their demons, and deal with the aftermath of opening a portal that destroyed the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	remember us (not as lost violent souls)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Well. I don't really have an excuse for this other than that I wanted to write something sad for Gabi. So. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BUDDY I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS ♥
> 
> As always, a million thanks to Cindy for reading through this!

 

 

 _This is the way the world ends_  
_This is the way the world ends_  
_This is the way the world ends_  
_Not with a bang but a whimper_

 _—_ _The Hollow Men,_ T.S. Eliot

 

—

 

The Fall – the Event, the Apocalypse, the End – happens on a Friday, as most endings do. Almost three months of intensive research, and in the end all it takes is a simple calculation of density and frequency to rebuild and re-open the portal to the blue planet.

 

They know the risk and they take it still, but not without opposition. Coulson was against it, of course. S.H.I.E.L.D - _his_ S.H.I.E.L.D - has always been about protection, but never at the cost of more lives. But Fitz and Simmons fought tooth and nail to get Will back, and May committed a small but firm nod, which ultimately decided the matter in their favor.

 

So when Death itself sweeps its way through the portal before Daisy has the chance to crush it to pieces, there is nothing left to do but to wait until the guilt sinks in.

 

(It doesn’t take too long.)

 

—

 

Despite his earlier stance against opening the portal, Coulson gives them a breezy way out. After all, it is rather easy to quit an organization that’s been burned to ashes for maybe the fourth time in five years.

 

With several flourishes of pen on paper, they sign the past twelve years off, trading a life of danger and adventure for one in the secluded highlands of Perthshire.

 

“So long, Agents Fitz and Simmons.” Coulson squeezes their shoulders with his mechanical arm, and Jemma pulls him into a hug.

 

“We’ll do our best, sir. To… try to pay for all of this.”

 

“You don’t have to pay for anything. You don’t owe the world anything.”

 

“We let that monster onto our planet, Sir,” Fitz answers, trying to meet the Director’s eyes with a look of apology and gratitude.

 

“We’ll take care of that,” Coulson promises. “That’s what we do best here at S.H.I.E.L.D. But you… your fight is over. Stop fighting. At least for now.”

 

—

 

The nightmares return shortly after they move in.

 

They come in waves, like tides that ebb and flow and meander through her hazy memory. She dreams of water and sky and other infinite seas of blue, and she drowns in every one of them. And every time she swims, flailing her hands, padding her way further, further from the blue and into the darkest parts of herself. The loneliness. The anger. Miscalculations and unspoken words clawing at her throat. An abandoned astronaut. Every failed attempt at saving someone, and the crashing weight of guilt. The heavy blame of destruction.

 

She wakes up panting and clutching at the sheets of their still-too-crisp, still-too-new, still-not-home-enough bed. And she is still drowning.

 

 _Fitz._ She whispers. Or maybe she shouts. Most nights, she can’t really tell the difference.

 

But he wakes up. He stirs and his arm snakes across the sheets, finding its way to her. He pulls her in against his chest and she presses her ears against his heart. She uses the beat as a tuning fork for her breathing. _Thump._ In and out. _Thump thump._  In and out.

 

 _Fitz._ She sighs at each exhale. _Fitz, Fitz, Fitz._ Her last therapist advised her to choose a mantra to tide her through the attacks, and she chose his name. It’s always been the only prayer she’s ever known.

 

 

Her breathing evens out and she relaxes in his hold, fingers softly anchoring her heart to his skin. His lips descend on her forehead, warm and tender and landing languidly like a ripple kissing the shore.

 

_Yes. Yes, I am here and I am yours._

 

—

 

Leopold Fitz has a secret known only to the bottles of herbs and catsup perched on the kitchen counter: he struggles, still. Sometimes, in random moments, but often at night in the solace of the dim refrigerator light, he sees flashes of blue and his hands do the trembling thing he’s long strived to unlearn.

 

 _Patience._ He almost hears Bobbi remind him. _Patience, Fitz._

 

But it’s been more than a year since the pod, and those very hands have opened and closed and opened and closed the door to another world and caused destruction to this one, and he is tired.

 

It goes like a cycle: He raises his right hand, ready to pound at the marble countertop. The glass jars sit waiting, waiting, waiting for it to drop, to send them flying across the room and rain down shards onto the wooden floor. But it never comes. It settles slowly, firmly, shaking and quivering still.

 

 _You’re not damaged,_ he tells himself, until the shaking stops and it the words taste at least a little bit true in his mouth.

 

One night she finds him all balled up in the floor, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth.

 

_No. No you’re not._

 

She holds him through it, and he learns that the words taste truer when she says them.

 

—

 

They try to stay away from the news. Daisy would call every once in a while to fill them in on the team’s missions, and Hunter would call to report on the latest gossip, but general news on the carnage of the monster they unleashed burns much too sharply in their stomachs. They _are_ the Apocalypse, and it breaks them every day.  

 

But they take each other’s pieces and layer them into something beautiful. They take a white wall at the back of the cottage and smear it with a crayon for every time she survives her nightmares and he survives his anger. Growth marks. For the roots they’re trying to grow back.

  
The world lives on through the Apocalypse, and so do they. The nightmares never leave, but they do become a little kinder, and in the morning Fitz and Simmons watch the sun rise a little brighter.

 

And so do they.

 


End file.
